Memories That Bind
by JayJe
Summary: Natasha grew up sleeping with her wrists chained to her bed, but Clint doesn't know why she locks herself to her bed even after working for S.H.I.E.L.D. - Inspired by 1x05 of Agent Carter. Hints at Red Room, abuse, trauma, PTSD, etc. Nothing specifically mentioned. Open for interpretation.


**Um, I kinda watched episode five of Agent Carter and ran with this.**

**Nothing's mine. Might rewrite it. Haven't decided. This was written on a whim. Let me know what you think! :)**

**Memories That Bind**

The cool metal felt familiar around her wrist as she squeezed the cuff firmly into place. Then she leaned toward the wooden bars to lock the other cuff to the headboard. Everything felt so familiar, so normal. This is who she was, it's all she knows, and she wasn't going to let some man change that about her.

"What are you doing?" The archer looked over from his bed in curiosity. As far as he was concerned, if she wanted him dead, a set of handcuffs wasn't going to prevent her from obtaining that goal.

She whispered in Russian and he had to strain forward to hear it, "It's who I am." Then she turned on her shoulder with her back to him and closed her eyes.

If the world's deadliest assassin was going to chain herself to a bed post while she slept, who was Clint to complain?

* * *

When they arrived at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, agents took Natalia away to lock her in a cell for monitoring. Throughout the day, she was still. She was quiet. She was docile. Clint had to ask himself if she was the right woman he was assigned to kill. But he knew it was always the calmest before the storm.

He was an archer. He was patient. He could observe. And when the shift changed and new agents arrived, he remained at the monitors. He needed to know.

Daylight turned to dusk and dusk turned to night. While agents grew bored from the lack of activity, Clint continued to wait.

It was when the hour struck two and the city was settled firmly into the night that Clint noticed the first change. Her fingers began to fumble.

It was when the hour struck three and the streets became quiet that Clint noticed the second change. Her eyes began to close.

It was when the hour struck four and the life began to wake that Clint noticed the third change. Her head began to droop.

It was when the hour struck five and the citizens left for work that Clint noticed the fourth change. Her fists began to clinch.

It was when the hour struck six and the agents changed shifts that Clint saw the rest. Her head fell against the wall and she sat in a tense slumber. But while others would have left, he continued to wait.

It didn't take long. Thirty minutes had past. Not a minute more and she was startling awake. Her left hand gripped firmly around her right. The same wrist that was held to chains one night prior. His eyes narrowed in on her. He noticed her eyes were squeezed shut while her lips pressed firmly together and she shook herself awake.

* * *

The routine continued for weeks. She was exhausted into compliance. And finally, when Fury cleared her for her first mission, they were paired together.

It was a week excursion, Intel mostly, for the mission and for herself.

Their first night they set up. He took the bed while she the couch. He may be a gentleman but he needed to know.

He feigned his sleep, breathing deep and slow.

She rolled restlessly for an hour before she sighed heavily.

He sat up, catching himself in her view, then scooted over and patted the spot beside him.

After first she looked reluctant, but he knew, she needed the sleep and there was no other option. Still wordless, he held up a set of cuffs.

Slowly she padded over, almost daring him to pull them away and laugh mockingly in her face. But he just pushed them closer. She took them. Her fingers wrapping gently around the metal, her eyes having fallen into wonder. But he rolled onto his shoulder, his back turned to her, and didn't say a word.

The clicking of the locks echoing through the otherwise silent room.

And when she was settled comfortably on the bed, he whispered, "Why do you do that?"

In which she whispered her reply in Russian, "It's who I am."

And they said no more.

* * *

The same thing happened every following night of the mission. Each night he would ask and each night she would reply, "It's who I am."

And they said no more.

* * *

They returned to base the seventh day and she was granted her own room. He passed her in the hallway, carrying his own duffle bag back to his room, he stopped her for only a moment. He was figuring her out, slowly, but he was. And without a word, he handed her a set of cuffs with a key.

As he walked away, he turned back for only a second, and in that second he saw the first genuine smile grace her lips.

And while he saw her smile, he still didn't know why.

* * *

Months passed. They grew closer. Their missions became longer. And their trust became stronger.

But he still didn't know why.

It wasn't until they were lying in bed one night during a mission. He could almost say they were friends now. They talked about things outside the mission and occasionally she asked him to help her understand the American culture. And while he could almost say they were friends, he still didn't know why.

But it was in the middle of the night when he felt a kick to his thigh and heard the rattling of chains that he woke immediately to see her crying while clawing with her free hand at the chains. She tossed continuously in her sleep. But he could only watch. Silent while she ached in slumber.

Moments continued to pass. Her thrashing became stronger. And eventually she woke sharply with a gasp. It was unquestionable to her that he would be awake, but the concern on his face came as quite a surprise.

He looked at her chained wrist and whispered, "Unlock it."

"What?" She breathed.

His forehead tilted toward the cuffs, "You heard me."

Silently, slowly, she pulled the key from the chain around her neck and unlocked the cuffs.

With her wrist free, he grabbed it gently in his hands. His thumbs ran over the raw wounds and old scars that marred her skin. "Why do you do it?"

She tried to pull away, tugging firmly to break his grip, but he held on. She whispered in Russian, "It's who I am."

He shook his head side to side. Then he met his eyes with hers and pulled her wounded wrists to his lips. Gently he kissed the scars. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again. "No, it's not, Natalia." And when she tried to shake her head in denial, he spoke louder and clearer. "No. It's not."

A few tears fell from her eyes and he wiped them away with the pads of his thumbs. She choked. "Natasha. I want to be called Natasha."

A crooked smile found its way to his lips and he addressed her, "Okay, Natasha."

That night he pulled her to his chest, one arm wrapped around her while another held her wrists. Afterward she didn't fight restlessly in her sleep again for memories of who she once was - now unburdened with a past that once haunted her every dream.

And then he knew why.


End file.
